The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

Chapter 2

The Story The Authors

And so he beat the living shit and bejeesus out of Crink.
He did not imagine it would be a pretty sight when he was finished... Officer Matthew Hickey stepped back from the ruin he'd pounded Crink into, only to find — when the scales of rage had fallen from his eyes — that the bloody figure he held now by the labels was not Crink but the corpse of his own mother! He screamed and dropped her, leapt back and stood shaking, silently gibbering to himself like the dribbling, moon-maddened narrator at the end of some lesser H.P. Lovecraft. Crink stood ten feet away, leaning contentedly against a tree and chuckling to himself. "Well, Officer, I guess me and the boys won't have to work her over with the meat tenderizing hammers — why, you done pounded the rigor mortis outta her. Christ, boy, you fixin' to make meatloaf out of your Mama or something?" Philip

"You fiend! You horrible, ghoulish fiend!" shouted Officer Hickey between sobs.
"Mother," he blubbered, cradling her lifeless, ragdoll-like body. "I'm sorry mother. I'm so sorry." he buried his face in the crook of her cold twisted neck and sobbed.
"Look if it will make you feel better we could kill you and eat you along with your mother." smiled Jeremy. cuddles

Jeremy shivered. Cys

Why did Jeremy shiver? Jeremy shivered because he experienced, just then and there, an exquisite gustatory deja vu of the first time he tasted human flesh. His entire being squirmed with the pleasure of it, and his salivary glands brimmeth'd biblically o'er. June, 1973... Philip

Jeremy was working alone at the mortuary that languid, early-summer afternoon. The first cicadas of the year tuned their instruments against one another ("I said C, you idiot! That's a motherfucking E-flat!") and the Canadian rock trio Rush's "Fly By Night" was making the AOR airwaves even more unbearable than usual when he heard the screech of brakes outside the loading-dock. Another stiff. They had brought in — one of those roving mercenary ambulances — a young girl who had died en route to the hospital. Her heart had stopped — and the two inexperienced EMTs (who were in fact none other than Goofus and Gallant, now grown to manhood) had tried to restart her heartbeat by electrical means, had tried and failed four or five times, but had left her budding young breasts with severe burns — in short, her breasts were — that's right — cooked. Slightly underdone, as he would later discover, but the aroma was... indescribable. Stars had danced before his eyes, pixiedust had sparkled and fizzed across his taste-buds, his nostrils had quivered ferally...
He signed for the body and shooed the EMTs away, and before he knew consciously what he was doing he had locked the door's three locks, raced to the body on the table, pulled back the bloodsoaked sheet, sliced one of her breasts off with a deft stroke of his trusty scalpel and raced to thye kitchen, where he sliced it in thin strips and sauteed it in garlic-infused extra virgin (heh, heh) olive oil with dashes of salt, pepper, parsley, white wine, bell pepper, summer squash, and fresh rosemary. And nothing he had ever eaten had tasted half as good. He was hooked. Philip

He'd played this familiar scenario over and over in his head a thousand times. We're all guilty of such fiendish visions, thoughts, wishes, desires, as Kafka himself would attest. We seldom share our abominations with each other, but Jeremy Crink had a number of kinks. He had, in fact, never tasted human flesh but indeed he wanted to. The problem was one of wimpiness, sheer cowardice. He didn't have the guts to taste the guts of his own kind. His fascination with the unconventional flesh had actually started about the same time his interest in medicine had started. It was with the animals on his Daddies farm. Phineus de Thornley Head

The idea of being a doctor (or EMT, which to him was almost the same thing) came to him one day while his dad was slaughtering chickens. Chop! Off went the chicken's head, and off went the chicken, runing around for seconds at a time, as if trying to find it. At least those were the assertive ones. Most of them just sort of twitched and kicked briefly before relinquishing themselves to the permanent inactivity of death. Phineus de Thornley Head

The Story	The Authors
And so he beat the living shit and bejeesus out of Crink. He did not imagine it would be a pretty sight when he was finished... Officer Matthew Hickey stepped back from the ruin he'd pounded Crink into, only to find — when the scales of rage had fallen from his eyes — that the bloody figure he held now by the labels was not Crink but the corpse of his own mother! He screamed and dropped her, leapt back and stood shaking, silently gibbering to himself like the dribbling, moon-maddened narrator at the end of some lesser H.P. Lovecraft. Crink stood ten feet away, leaning contentedly against a tree and chuckling to himself. "Well, Officer, I guess me and the boys won't have to work her over with the meat tenderizing hammers — why, you done pounded the rigor mortis outta her. Christ, boy, you fixin' to make meatloaf out of your Mama or something?"	Philip
"You fiend! You horrible, ghoulish fiend!" shouted Officer Hickey between sobs. "Mother," he blubbered, cradling her lifeless, ragdoll-like body. "I'm sorry mother. I'm so sorry." he buried his face in the crook of her cold twisted neck and sobbed. "Look if it will make you feel better we could kill you and eat you along with your mother." smiled Jeremy.	cuddles
Jeremy shivered.	Cys
Why did Jeremy shiver? Jeremy shivered because he experienced, just then and there, an exquisite gustatory deja vu of the first time he tasted human flesh. His entire being squirmed with the pleasure of it, and his salivary glands brimmeth'd biblically o'er. June, 1973...	Philip
Jeremy was working alone at the mortuary that languid, early-summer afternoon. The first cicadas of the year tuned their instruments against one another ("I said C, you idiot! That's a motherfucking E-flat!") and the Canadian rock trio Rush's "Fly By Night" was making the AOR airwaves even more unbearable than usual when he heard the screech of brakes outside the loading-dock. Another stiff. They had brought in — one of those roving mercenary ambulances — a young girl who had died en route to the hospital. Her heart had stopped — and the two inexperienced EMTs (who were in fact none other than Goofus and Gallant, now grown to manhood) had tried to restart her heartbeat by electrical means, had tried and failed four or five times, but had left her budding young breasts with severe burns — in short, her breasts were — that's right — cooked. Slightly underdone, as he would later discover, but the aroma was... indescribable. Stars had danced before his eyes, pixiedust had sparkled and fizzed across his taste-buds, his nostrils had quivered ferally... He signed for the body and shooed the EMTs away, and before he knew consciously what he was doing he had locked the door's three locks, raced to the body on the table, pulled back the bloodsoaked sheet, sliced one of her breasts off with a deft stroke of his trusty scalpel and raced to thye kitchen, where he sliced it in thin strips and sauteed it in garlic-infused extra virgin (heh, heh) olive oil with dashes of salt, pepper, parsley, white wine, bell pepper, summer squash, and fresh rosemary. And nothing he had ever eaten had tasted half as good. He was hooked.	Philip
He'd played this familiar scenario over and over in his head a thousand times. We're all guilty of such fiendish visions, thoughts, wishes, desires, as Kafka himself would attest. We seldom share our abominations with each other, but Jeremy Crink had a number of kinks. He had, in fact, never tasted human flesh but indeed he wanted to. The problem was one of wimpiness, sheer cowardice. He didn't have the guts to taste the guts of his own kind. His fascination with the unconventional flesh had actually started about the same time his interest in medicine had started. It was with the animals on his Daddies farm.	Phineus de Thornley Head
The idea of being a doctor (or EMT, which to him was almost the same thing) came to him one day while his dad was slaughtering chickens. *Chop!* Off went the chicken's head, and off went the chicken, runing around for seconds at a time, as if trying to find it. At least those were the assertive ones. Most of them just sort of twitched and kicked briefly before relinquishing themselves to the permanent inactivity of death.	Phineus de Thornley Head

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